Foul Creatures
by Catmint
Summary: I dread their arrival it is the guillotine severing our one remaining link to childhood and any notion, however faint, of innocence.


Foul Creatures

**Disclaimer:** All characters here are NOT MINE. They belong to JK Rowling. Always have done. So don't sue; you won't get anywhere. I make no money from this.

**A/N:** This came to me suddenly and I stayed up until 2am writing it (it hit me at about 11pm) – despite having a 9.30am lecture on muscles in the morning. It had to be written.

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I glance up as the door to the otherwise empty sixth-year Slytherin girls' dormitory is slowly pushed open, to see my best friend Draco Malfoy standing there. His shoulders are uncharacteristically slumped and his head is bowed, his gaze fixed firmly upon the ground. His arms are wrapped tightly, protectively, around his too-thin frame, and his pale blond hair hangs loosely, partially obscuring his face from my vision. He is an image of complete and utter despair and hopelessness; his true self, which none beside myself ever see due to the mask he hides behind and the act he puts on in public. He would make a fine actor.

I am alarmed, and the Herbology book that was placed on my lap tumbles to the floor unheeded as I rise to my feet from my previously cross-legged position upon my bed. "Draco?" I ask hesitantly, uncertainly. "What's happened?" I have never seen him like this before. I am familiar with his depressive episodes – far too familiar – but not like this.

He shakes his head, raising it just high enough for his grey eyes to meet my own hazel ones. They are filled with tears that are on the verge of spilling over and cascading down his virtually colourless cheeks.

But it is the emotion that I see in them that breaks my heart. Pain, despair, hopelessness, anguish, weariness, an overriding, heart-wrenching sadness…I find tears welling up in my own eyes from his pain as I step forward and gently take his small, thin hands in mine. He stiffens momentarily, and fear briefly flashes across his face from an unpleasant memory as the mask slips before he can prevent it from doing so, before he relaxes again, silently reminding himself that he can trust me, even if he can trust no other. I repeat my question.

"The Letter has come." His tone is dull, flat, dead, sending involuntary chills down my spine. Some of that deadness has crept into his eyes, which bear heavy black marks underneath them from lengthy periods of terrible insomnia. He is unable to take sleeping potions, for he has developed a high tolerance to them and they no longer have any effect on him. The shadows contrast sharply with his pale face. Draco is naturally pale, but he is too pale as he stands in front of me. I have seen dying people, with only hours to live, look better that my friend currently does. He has an almost dead appearance to him these days. He barely sleeps or eats. He cannot cope with all the expectations piled upon him, something which few recognise.

"What does the letter say?" I ask, almost dreading his answer, knowing what it will be.

"Hasn't yours come yet?"

I shake my head. "Remember that I'm not seventeen until March. It's only November now."

"True," he concedes.

The letter of which we speak is the 'invitation' to become a Death Eater, a follower of arguably the most feared Dark Lord of all time, Tom Marvolo Riddle – aka, 'Lord Voldemort' (he fashioned the name himself; arrogant man). The letter is usually from our parents. Many Slytherins have received them, along with the occasional student from other houses, Gryffindor included (or so I have heard, although Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown are hardly the most reliable of sources). I dread their arrival; it is the guillotine severing our one remaining link to childhood and any notion, however faint, of innocence.

"My mother sent mine." Draco's father went into hiding after his escape from Azkaban prison in mid-October. Ministry wizards and others are attempting to track him down, and he cannot communicate with his son without giving himself away. He is one of the Dark Lord's most loyal supporters.

"When's your initiation?" I ask, almost afraid of his answer.

Draco bites his lip, desperately attempting to force back the tears that are still filling his eyes. "C-Christmas," he whispers, despair tangible in his voice, despite his best efforts to maintain his composure.

My heart sinks and I momentarily close my eyes. Please no. Don't let this be happening. I reach out and embrace Draco as he stumbles, holding him tightly in a desperate attempt to comfort and reassure him, even though I am painfully aware that it is probably of no use. Fighting and rebelling is far harder for Draco than it is for myself – my mother was a Ravenclaw, as were a substantial number of her family. We are not quite like the Malfoys; we are not so lost in the darkness, and we do not have the same level of expectation placed upon us. Also, I am a girl, whereas Draco is a boy – the only boy – and thus the family heir.

"Pans?" Draco whispers, raising his head with some difficulty from my now damp shoulder.

"What?" I ask, meeting his gaze apprehensively. I am almost afraid to look into his eyes.

"I – I…" His voice cracks. "I'm not doing it, Pans. I'm not. I won't be one of those foul creatures…" He starts to slur his words and his head falls to my shoulder.

Now I am scared. Draco has never talked like this before, never spoken with such complete hopelessness and bleakness before.

Talking…Slurring words…I am suddenly gripped by a wave of panic and I seize Draco by the shoulders. "Draco? What have you done? Talk to me! Tell me what you've done!" I demand frantically of him, shaking him violently.

He forces his eyes open, but his gaze is glassy, unfocused. He has done something; I can tell. Something dreadful.

"I'm ending it, Pans," he answers as I release my hold on him, his tone vague, as though his mind is far away and only semi-conscious. He stumbles, and I catch him, gently lowering him to the floor and throwing my duvet over him to keep him warm. Just in case. He has taken something, and I am getting help. Now.

I take off as fast as I can, narrowly avoiding a nasty tumble down the stairs. Blaise Zabini's cat is nothing but an infernal nuisance, second only to Filch's.

I ignore the bewildered stares of the Slytherins gathered in the common room, and leave our quarters. The rooms of our head of house, Professor Snape, are fortunately not far, and within a very short space of time I am banging on his office door.

He emerges, irritated. "Miss Parkinson, just what exactly is the meaning of this commotion?" His glare is one that, under any other circumstance, would terrify me. At this moment in time, it does not bother me at all.

"Draco's taken something," I answer, my voice shaky. "Something bad."

Snape's demeanour changes instantly. "Where is he?" he demands, and follows me closely as I take off, racing back to the Slytherin quarters. Time is precious.

"My dorm," I tell him, skidding as I turn a corner. "He got the letter telling him that he'll receive the Mark at Christmas." Snape is a former Death Eater and still bears the Dark Mark, a sign of his previous role as a loyal servant of the Dark Lord. He is a spy for the opposing force now. The headmaster informed me so at the start of this school year, when I went to him to ask for protection from the Dark Side. I know that I can trust Snape.

"What has he done?" Snape asks briskly as we slip into the Slytherin common room, once again not taking any notice of the curious stares.

"Taken something – I'm guessing some kind of potion. He was slurring his words and couldn't focus his eyes properly," I reply, taking the stairs two at a time in my desperation to get to my best friend before it is too late. "I – I think he's attempted suicide."

We arrive in my dorm. Snape crosses the room in six swift strides and kneels down beside Draco, checking him over. "He's alive. Run to the hospital wing and warn Pomfrey. I'll be up just behind you."

I turn and flee, not caring about the burning in my lungs or my legs as they scream for relief and oxygen. All I can think about is getting to Pomfrey before it is too late. I do not even stop to exchange insults with Potter, Weasley and Granger, the Gryffindor Dream Team, despite threats from Weasley about housepoint deduction. I am a prefect as well as he, anyway, so it is somewhat pointless. But typical of Weasley.

I am barely able to breathe by the time I reach the hospital wing. Somehow I gasp out the necessary details to Pomfrey before I sink down onto the nearest soft chair. Pomfrey likes soft chairs. 

She gives me a glass of water. "Small sips, now, child. You'll be fine in a few minutes." She then leaves me to recover from my exertion, to prepare for Draco's arrival.

It is not long before Snape appears, striding swiftly, bearing Draco in his arms. He places my friend on the waiting bed and Pomfrey pulls curtains around them. I can see no more. There is nothing I can do, so I concentrate on regaining my breath and my composure whilst I wait for news of Draco.

Pomfrey bustles about between Draco's bed and her store of healing potions, and there are brief exchanges of words with Snape, though I am not close enough to decipher what is being said, nor can I be bothered to cast an Eavesdropping Charm.

After several hours of agonising waiting and worrying, and desperate prayers to the Muggle God and whoever else might be listening, Pomfrey appears in front of me, an grave expression on her face. My heart instantly plummets. Please no. "How – how bad?" I whisper, terrified of her response.

She sits down beside me. "He's extremely ill, Pansy. He took a lethal cocktail of potions, and I quite agree with Severus in that he knew exactly what he was doing.

"However," she continues, taking a deep breath, "he will pull through, barring any unexpected complications (of which there's less than a zero-point-zero-one percent) – which is the good news. Unfortunately, though, he is now partially blind in his left eye and Severus and I both believe that that is permanent, irreparable damage." She places one hand on my shoulder. "The headmaster will arrange for protection for him, and his mother has not been contacted, nor will she be. You can see him now; he's awake. Just a few minutes, though – he'll tire very quickly."

The relief crashes down on me and I burst into tears. Thankyou, whoever answered my prayers! Shakily I get to my feet and wipe away my tears. Pomfrey supports me as I walk to Draco's bed and sit down on it, taking his hand in mine. "Hey there," I say softly.

He almost smiles. "Hey," he croaks out, gazing at me through one half-open eye (his damaged left eye has been covered by a patch).

"You pulled through."

He looks away. "I s'pose."

I squeeze his hand. "We'll get through this. It'll be hard, but we will get though it. You're safe here now."

"Am I?" He eyes me dubiously, sceptically.

I nod fervently, truly believing my words. "Yes, Draco. You are. Just as long as we stick together. I won't let you down."

He nods briefly and yawns. "I'm tired, Pans. I need to sleep. See you in the morning."

I smile. "Definitely." I watch him for a few minutes until I am sure that he is asleep, and then turn to leave. Things are finally looking up for Draco. He need not become one of those foul creatures and perhaps redemption is not beyond hope after all.

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~fin~


End file.
